Toxic
by Galatea
Summary: Assistant DA Rachel Dawes is on a mission to clear the corruption out of Gotham, and there is no more suitable a target than Dr. Jonathan Crane, Head Psychiatrist of Arkham Asylum. She thinks Crane is just a brilliant narcissist with an axe to grind, but getting into his dirty, depraved mind will awaken some long-dormant desires of her own.
1. Entry Point

**Author's Note:** OK so… I'm aware that whenever I write fanfiction there's always a chance of wading into some kind of canon/backstory war that I'm not aware of. I'm not a die-hard Batman fan, but I have always loved the character of Crane/Scarecrow (as portrayed by Cillian Murphy) and I wanted to write something a bit sexy with this character in mind. I haven't read the comics, so if you are really into the original canon and like fiction based really solidly on source material, there will be all sorts of things in here which won't be accurate. The movies don't present any obvious sexual or romantic partners for Crane, so I selected out Rachel Dawes for this story, and I've rewritten her with an aim to make her a lot more spunky (no pun intended) and a lot less Katie Holmes-ie. I didn't like Katie's portrayal of Rachel, as she felt very wet around the ears and very bland. Maggie Gyllenhall did a much better job, but by then the character is tied up with Harvey Dent, and Scarecrow is a much smaller feature of Dark Knight and Dark Knight Rises.

This story is not written in the canon of the 3 movies, and needs to be viewed as based in that universe, but not within the timeline of the 3 films. To give some rough background, it's set around about the same time Batman Begins, erm, begins (when Bruce returns to Gotham after his training), and proposes that Crane is just a figure on Batman's radar who he knows is up to no good, but isn't doing anything obvious enough for the Dark Knight to drop in and dangle him out of a window. Rachel isn't aware that Bruce is Batman, but I will state that Batman isn't a major presence in the story. Batman mentions Crane to Rachel, who is seeking a way to bring down Crane using more standard, legal practices.

Sexiness ensues.

**Warnings:** While this chapter doesn't contain anything rampantly sexual, I should say that things will get sexy later, so if you don't like that kind of thing then that's obviously fine, but this might not be your kind of story. It's important to remember that things _are_ dark in the Batman universe, and some _seriously_ messed up stuff happens in the Batman comics and cartoons. We now live in the times of #metoo, so it's important to state that my fiction is never intended to suggest that rape or groping or any kind of unwanted contact is OK. The bottom line here is that in the REAL world, it is essential to have every participant's permission before engaging in sexual activity. In fantasy fanfiction land, it's not essential, and therefore within the realm of Batman especially, you won't see a lot of mutual orgasms or people making healthy life decisions.

**More specifically (also tldr):** This chapter contains sexy banter only, no touching, but later chapters will contain full on penetrative sexy stuff.

**Disclaimer:** These aren't my characters, nor is the universe they exist in. They are merely my puppets whom I make boink each other every chance I can because reasons.

"Doctor Crane? Hello?"

Rachel knocked again on the non-descript white wooden door, so alike all of the other doors in the corridor to her left and right. The only thing that made it stand out in any manner was the printed piece of paper in the bracket to the right of the frame, which sat roughly at eye-height. _Dr. Jonathan Crane, Chief Psychiatrist. _Underneath it, in smaller print, read, _Professor of Psychology, Gotham University._

Crane had been on Batman's watch-list for a while. His name had been all too often associated with every possible variety of shady business, from patient deaths to overdoses to a couple of troubling links to patients who had been released prematurely only to go on to murder their entire families. It didn't seem to matter what he was involved in, nothing the DA's office had thrown at Crane so far had stuck, and she'd yet to even get him on the stand as anything other than an expert witness in other criminal trials.

She'd last seen him two months ago, condescending and glib as always, as he helped persuade another jury that a man no more than a common murderer had psychotic delusions and multiple personalities, and needed a long stay in Arkham. Her eyes had fixed him the moment he'd seated himself and placed his hand on the Bible. Rachel had wished, WISHED with all her might, that he would've been struck by a Heaven-sent thunderbolt for all the bullshit coming out of his mouth. Instead he presented comprehensively and intelligently, and winked at her smugly as he'd glided back past the prosecution stand.

Arrogant fucker. He might not be thrusting the knife in himself, but he was a corrupt cog in Gotham's machine which needed extraction. Fine - she couldn't put him behind bars for being a condescending prick, but she could sure as Hell pin him for as many counts of perjuring himself as she could find, and give him a nice, long prison stay. That thought was about the only thing helping her sleep at night right now. The deeper she'd gotten into the miasma of misery around him, the more she knew he had to be stopped. Maybe – just maybe - there was something even nastier in his back catalogue that she could get him for, but she wouldn't know until she got to know the man a little better. That was what today was all about.

She drummed her fingers on top of the pink folder she was holding, aware that she was still waiting. Within it were the outlines of her plan. On the surface it was just another case, one that she could claim she needed his help on; to psycho-analyse the culprit, get his insights into a criminal mind. It would give her face-time with Crane, time to get under his skin, maybe even the opportunity to sift through his desk and skim the contents of a few of his files. Right now she was just far too light on good, fresh dirt on this man, but she had a theory that if there was anything this highly intelligent and narcissistic beast would enjoy, it was mansplaining the human mind to her tender, female brain.

She raised her knuckles to rap one more time, but before her fist could connect the door opened swiftly, and there stood the man himself. No dark suit today – he wasn't in court – though a suit jacket hung over the back of the chair behind him. He was wearing a pale blue shirt, dark pants, and over the top of it all, a lab-coat with one solitary expensive-looking fountain pen in the top right-hand breast pocket. Dark hair pushed back, and steel-rimmed glasses in-situ on his nose, he was somehow more imposing than she'd expected. He didn't greet her, but smirked and cocked his head to one side when he laid eyes on his visitor.

"Miss Dawes, what an unexpected pleasure."

"Doctor Crane," she said, trying to keep her expression and body language calm and neutral despite an overpowering urge to smack him in the mouth. "I…"

"_Doctor_ is it today? I'm flattered."

The last time Rachel had seen him, following their collision in court, she'd barked a series of profanities at the back of his head as he started down the courthouse steps, which had only earned her a wave and a smile over his shoulder. "I uhh, yes, I'm… I'm very sorry for that. It was unprofessional."

She sensed something in his demeanour change. This was clearly not the exchange he had been expecting, and his expression was replaced by something altogether more analytical. He folded his arms and lent on the doorway, lowering his head slightly so it was closer to hers. "What can I do for you, Miss Dawes?"

"Rachel is fine," she asserted, "and I was hoping that maybe you could…"

"Rachel," he said it quietly, under his breath, as she continued to speak. She couldn't figure out if it amused him, or whether he was deliberately trying to creep her out. She wouldn't have been surprised if the answer hung somewhere between.

"I have a case," she continued, distracted, and starting to race along a little bit to try and get to her point. She turned so that she stood side on to his chest, both to put some added distance between them, as well as to show him the name on the folder. "Roger McNulty, he's on the run after…"

"Stabbing his wife and her lover to death with a red-hot poker," he filled in, seamlessly, "Yes, nasty little case that one. A bit stomach-turning for people of a delicate disposition."

Rachel felt a hot stab of rage in her abdomen, trying to remind herself that this was exactly what she had been expecting, and exactly what she had been preparing herself for during her interminable wait for him to open his damn door. "It's hardly the worst case I've seen this month."

"You enjoy the dirty, nasty cases then?"

"Y-No." That went badly. She missed a beat, and he took the moment to interject.

"Bad girl."

Her eyes flicked up from the folder and connected momentarily with his, like a key sliding into a well-oiled lock. They were the most disconcerting shade of blue – icy, like a glacier. Like the frozen north. They would – could – have been beautiful, did they not hide a cruel glint that occasionally lit them up like burning headlamps. "I would like," she pressed, her disconcertedness making her irritable, "your opinion on how to catch him."

"My expert opinion," he slid in neatly.

"Your…" she sighed, "_expert_ opinion, yes. We need to know where he might have gone – who else he might target, how he is likely to try and evade the authorities. We need to predict what his next actions will be."

Dr. Crane smirked one final time, a trait that was beginning to thoroughly antagonise her, took a deep breath, tipped his head to one side then the other, and quickly snatched the file up and out of her hands. "I'll think about it!" he crowed, and in one final motion, slammed the door shut in Rachel's face.

"You, that's my…!" before she could stop herself, Rachel planted a kick on the bottom of the door, which made it rattle forcibly on its hinges. She felt the F word rise up her throat and backed off 3 large strides while she found the energy to suppress it. Still shaking ever so slightly, she rested her back against the clinical white wall and stared at Crane's door. "Unbelievable asshole."

Still, the plan was now in motion. Crane had the folder and, unless she was much mistaken, she had a feeling she'd be hearing from him. Crane, above all things, had a formidable analytical mind that he _loved_ to show off to anyone who would listen. She didn't need that much time with him – just long enough to get what she needed.

With this reassuring thought clutched tightly in her mind for safe-keeping, she turned tail and clicked her way back off down the stairs.

Inside his office, Jonathan Crane dropped into his leather swivel chair and put his feet up on the desk, flipping open the folder to reveal a selection of violently bloody shots – photographs taken at the scene of the killings. He chuckled quietly, lingering with pleasure over the nastiest of them before flipping over another page or two to the full page picture of the suspect.

"Good work, Roger, spectacular results…" he murmured. The new variant on his compound was promising. Shame that Roger had been his unwitting subject, he'd only been doing his mundane job at the courthouse that day, bless his little cotton socks, but needs must, and Crane needed a wider pool of test subjects than the loonies at Arkham. If this was the result he could expect from administering it to a mild-mannered court reporter, imagine the results he could expect from giving it to some of his favourite animals at the asylum.

Or Miss Dawes, for that matter. He'd love to watch her lose all her control and propriety.

He felt a familiar tightening in his groin as the fabric moved to accommodate him. "Steady now," he said, running a hand over his fly, "We'll come to that later."

TBC


	2. Compound Interest

**Author's Note:** Two chapters in one day - believe me when I say this is a bit of a rarity, but I had some time on my hands. :) Really a continuation of Chapter 1, and setting the scene.

**Warning:** A lot of alluding to sexual activity without any actual sexual activity. Cusses abound.

**Disclaimer:** I make DC characters boink for my own entertainment. I don't own them though. If I did I would make SO many movies. Mostly about boinking. Must stop saying boinking so much, it's getting weird.

Rachel stepped out into the chilly afternoon, tugging her coat more tightly around her shoulders and tucking her scarf around the collar to keep out the wind. "First steps…" she said quietly, trotting down the marble staircase and down on to the sidewalk. Arkham Asylum had been situated on the outskirts of the city, intended to be far enough away from the residents and businesses to keep the crazy from seeping into the streets. As it was, due to the exceptional number of high security inmates there, it felt like a month didn't pass without another of them escaping into people's backyards. The only way that Rachel had really been able to come to terms with what felt like excessive levels of crime and corruption, was to be on, as Batman had put it, "the side of the angels". Rachel didn't take any offence at this categorisation – if she had her way, she'd find every last sniff of corruption in the city and put every corrupt cop or politician into Blackgate Penitentiary. She was done playing nice with these reprobates.

In many ways, the corrupt bothered her so much more than the insane. Lunatics couldn't help their violent ways. Most of them had been mistreated as children, and many had had truly terrible lives which would have left even the most sane fucked up beyond redemption. The corrupt though often came from rich backgrounds where every possible benefit had been afforded them, and yet they entered the world not trying to help it get better, but to drain it of every last drop of decency to further their own interests.

Come to think of it – on the subject of Gotham's morally bankrupt – she realised that she knew very little of Crane. She was familiar with every case he'd been associated with in the last 2 years, but she didn't know his childhood or his training. She didn't know what modules he'd studied at college, or which sorority girls he'd banged. Not that that kind of information was likely to be in his file. The image of a more youthful Crane entangled with a blond girl with a perky chest, bent over a desk piled high with books suddenly peeped into her head, and she wafted it away with a literal motion of her arm. These were not thoughts she wanted or needed. She felt a sudden urge that she needed to blow off some steam – running the DA's office after the death of her boss had taken up every available minute, and it was a job she wanted to do well. As such, however, she'd had no time for anything resembling a social life, and other than a quick session with her vibrator perhaps once a week, she hadn't known any real action in months. Still, she couldn't imagine being able to solve that tonight, and didn't have the wherewithal to bring home some bank zombie to fail to satisfy her aches. No, some time spent on her back feeling the rumble of her toy roll through her loins would have to do for now.

She turned her mind over to other things – she had now managed to make it down the full length of the Asylum driveway, and exited into the parking area for visitors out front. The words _Elizabeth Arkham Asylum for the Criminally Insane _were written over the wrought iron gates, a looming shadow now in the late afternoon which was cast over her as she finished the last few steps to her car. She paused and looked back at the building, car keys in hand. "Come on _Doctor_ Crane, don't let me down," she said out-loud, as if he might somehow hear her from an upstairs window.

Dr. Crane was a man of prodigious talent, and he had turned his multi-faceted mind on to more interesting things. He turned to the trussed up middle-aged woman who was bound to the table behind him, turning a page in her file of notes, as if he didn't already know what they said verbatim. He'd spent a lot of time researching Angela Riesen, and he was content that she had all the talents he needed to unleash a little havoc in the life of his recent guest. It would take a couple more days to get the dosage exactly right, but he had time, and besides – he really wanted to play with Miss Dawes for a little while longer. She was the most interesting thing to come clickety clacking into his life on her silly high heels for a while, plus she had the kind of doe eyes and willowy physique that gave him an irrepressible hard-on every time she looked at him. And she looked at him _a lot_ for a woman who claimed he disgusted her.

He growled to himself at a level just beneath audible. It had taken him 10 minutes to cool off after she'd left, if he wasn't careful he'd be left fucking Ms Riesen, and as a chubby 45 year old with a stammer who bawled almost constantly, he didn't think he could tolerate the noise. He could always knock her out, he supposed, but he'd rather self-flagellate than have the image of all that middle age skin clogging up his brain cells.

"Hush, now now Angela, come along, you just need a little something to calm you down, that's all," he said, feigning sympathy with the accuracy of a true psychopath. "You'll sleep for a few hours, and then you'll feel like your old self again." He took a syringe from the medical stand, pushing the needle into a small bottle of clear fluid, and pulling back the piston to extract 5ML. He injected it into her drip, picked up his clipboard and took a couple of steps back. He then retrieved from his pocket an elegant silver stopwatch, and clicked the button on top to start it.

Right on cue, at 30 seconds, he saw the twitching come on in her limbs, and the beginnings of distressed sounds from her mouth. He felt a little jealous of her as the growling and then screaming started to erupt from her, her head thrown back and forth and back and forth as mania started to take hold. All that wonderful, ecstatic pain – the feeling of the body almost trying to reject the mind entirely, disassociating itself so much with the flesh that the world would turn inside out with the force of it. He checked the stopwatch again – 60 seconds now and she was foaming at the mouth like a rabid animal. He set the stopwatch down on the windowsill briefly to callously take two earplugs from his pockets and insert the little rubber plugs into both of his ears. He enjoyed the screaming – usually – but Ms. Riesen was like a stuck pig. If he'd had half a spark of humanity in that cold calculating mind, he might have put her out of her misery, but watching the full extent of the experiment was important so that he knew exactly what dosage was needed. Besides, this was far from the worst he'd seen. He remembered a particularly virulent strain in January which had caused the patient to break their own arm and wrist to be able to tear off their own face. That had been spectacular. Messy… but spectacular.

He liked this particular mix, he decided, locating an apple in the right-hand pocket of his lab coat as Angela attempted to thrust herself off the table, the leather restraints doing their duty and holding her in place. He took a large bite and set it down next to the stopwatch. His favourite was still his fear toxin – of course it was – but he enjoyed playing with the ratio, seeing how he could manipulate the fear, the rage, the tears, even the arousal of the patient. That was something new – something he was playing around with, sometimes slipping a drop or two into the coffee cups of the hotter nurses and then having them blow him in his office. Those that did remember what they'd done once their episode was over felt enough shame at how much they'd enjoyed tasting his cock to keep them quiet. Those that didn't remember, well… what did that matter?

He made a note on the clipboard of the different symptoms experienced and what times they kicked in, until, exhausted beyond measure, Angela Riesen fell back and lay silent and still. He checked the stopwatch one final time, made a note while holding the apple core between his teeth, and walked up to Ms. Riesen, pressing his fingers on to her wrist to look for a pulse. It was there – a little erratic from everything that had preceded it, but thumping away. What had that been – 15 minutes? It was probably a little too long, he needed something shorter, but more intense – something that would burn out Angela like a 4th of July sparkler.

After all, considering all the fun she'd be having, he didn't want her to be able to talk about it afterwards. What on earth would Rachel say?

TBC


	3. Know Thine Enemy

**Warnings:** No real warnings for this chapter - minimal swears and some grizzly violent crime details, but nothing for late night TV.

**Disclaimer:** Don't own it. :)

Rachel released a long, slow breath as she closed the door behind her and gently tossed her keys into the small bowl on the hall table. Her hall wasn't a long hall – more of a cupboard really, but she'd found space for a small dark wooden table that tended to bear the brunt of her bad days. Despite the quality of the wood, a number of needle-thin scratches from her key fob had damaged the surface. Stepping back and placing both her hands on the lip of the table, she dug her left big toe behind the heel of her right shoe and dislodged it by tucking it into the thick shag of the carpet. She then performed the same manoeuvre with the other, her lips issuing a small "mm" at the pleasure of not having her toes scrunched up any longer.

The life of an ADA was tough in Gotham. It was a job that you had to have a real death-wish to want to get into. Rachel didn't consider herself to be suicidal by nature, but she had realised about midway through law school that there were barely a handful of other students considering working for the DA's office. Most of them were planning lucrative careers in corporate and property law. Admittedly, these paths were where the money really was in Gotham – but Rachel knew that she couldn't spend her whole life walking past the homeless and the destitute, those who had had their lives destroyed by the crime families in the city, and do nothing about it. She didn't have it in her to ignore their pain.

She carried her leather briefcase into the kitchen area of her open-plan apartment, settling it in its usual spot on one of the kitchen bar stools that she never used. It was an elegant, tan-coloured leather bag, though rather tired-looking these days. It wasn't old – it had just been filled with one too many overstuffed files on a daily basis for the last year. She knew she'd need to invest soon in a new one, but she'd been so busy. Going and looking at bags seemed like something that _old_ Rachel would have enjoyed. New Rachel – responsible Rachel – had far too much shit to do.

She lived in a 5th floor walk-up in a relatively well-to-do area of the city. When Bruce had re-entered her life, he had taken one look at her tiny, stuffy apartment downtown and immediately offered to install her in the largest apartment in one of his skyscrapers – but Rachel was too proud for charity, and they'd settled on him using all of his connections to get her a recently refurbished one-bed apartment with plenty of space for all of her law books and big attitudes. She wouldn't let him pay, but had a feeling he had squeezed the landlord to get the lowest possible rent for the place he could. This she could just about live with. Her job was already dangerous enough without living in a rough neighbourhood where she could be finished off on her doorstep any given night of the week.

Rachel opened the fridge and retrieved a bottle of wine she had opened at the weekend. She tried not to drink too much – she knew the dangers of developing a dependence upon alcohol in a job as stressful as hers – but she couldn't avoid it every night. She needed a buffer between her brain and the murk that lived below the city streets. Much as she'd wanted to appear a tough woman in front of Crane, the pictures from these murders _were_ upsetting, just for the sheer bestial nature of them. Yes, Mrs McNulty and her lover had been stabbed with a red hot poker, but what remained of them could only loosely be called "bodies". _Stabbed_ suggested a series of rough incisions, but whoever had done this had rammed the implement in over and over until most of the abdomen had been completely torn open, the organs skewered and mashed up. She wasn't sure how long Roger McNulty had been at it (assuming he was the culprit, and right now given a bloodied handprint at the scene he was the most likely suspect) but she had to assume he'd been hacking away for several minutes at least – long after the two victims were past caring or feeling anything. Usually the shock and horror of what had been done would kick in, rendering the murderer contrite and horrified. Whoever had done this had just gone on hacking like he had no other purpose in his entire universe.

She realised she had been standing completely still in the kitchen for several minutes. Half of the glass of wine she must have poured (though she didn't remember doing so) was already gone, and her fingers were squeezing the outside of the delicate high stemmed wine glass harder than was sensible. It had been unwise to leave the file with Crane – she didn't have the authority to do it, though without a current DA in place, she doubted anyone would have caught her or raised much of an eyebrow. She'd left it with Crane to try and pique his interest, but now she was really questioning all the decisions that she'd made that day. Crane was _corrupt_, was giving him access to sensitive information a good idea? He'd hidden his tracks immaculately to date – she was going to need more than a few clever words in court to put him behind bars. These types of morally questionable actions were normally Batman's purview, but he had enough on his hands right now, and there was no proof that what Crane was doing was anything other than low-life scumbag activity. He wasn't some kind of crazy super-villain as Gotham seemed so apt at creating.

Going and taking a tray from behind the sink, Rachel loaded it up with her topped-up wine glass, some cutlery, and last night's lasagne, all balanced neatly on top of the files she had been accumulating on Doctor Crane. She thought the better of it and took the rest of the bottle of wine, then trod softly across the rich grey carpet to sit down on her dark green leather couch. Everything in Rachel's apartment was very tasteful – she had a good eye for colours and what-went-with-what. She reached up and tugged the little metal chain hanging down from her standing lamp, and it illuminated her lap with a pleasant orangey glow.

It didn't take long to devour the lasagne. She wasn't certain that she should have eaten it cold, but she had a lot to get through, and not enough time to worry about culinary matters. She leant forward and set the empty bowl on the table, sucking the remaining sauce thoughtfully off of her lower lip as she lifted her glass and then turned over to the first full page of text in the file.

Doctor Jonathan Crane. She'd exported almost everything that had in the city records and sent it to the work printer. She had about 10 or so pictures of Crane, mostly from his time spent at Gotham University, though some from his official records at Arkham Asylum. There was nothing at all she had about him as a child – no sign of any pictures in local newspapers of him winning science awards, though she was certain he must have done so. She wondered to herself whether to pay a visit to Gotham Elementary school – see whether any of Crane's old teachers still taught there. So many times, early life became a massive influence on later behaviour. She'd also be interested in knowing as much as possible about Jonathan's parents – Howard and Lacey. Lacey had been a member of the school PTA for many years, but after Jonathan had turned 18 or so, his parents had pretty much dropped off the face of the earth.

_Moved away? _Rachel wrote neatly in the margin, next to their names.

She flipped back to a poor photocopy of an old school photo – a picture taken of Crane's entire class. He stood sullenly off to one side, while a boy behind him seemed to be trying to reach out and grab his hair. Kids games were rough and tumble to be sure, but there was something malicious in the little boy's expression as he lashed out at Jonathan. She made a small note _Bullied_ next to the picture, lingering on it thoughtfully.

Time passed and Rachel turned the pages, digging through Crane's life, trying to absorb as much of it as possible into her mind to form the best possible picture. Some parts of Crane's life were simply absent. There was a wedge of his later merits at university that she could have propped open a window with, but nothing about what he was really like as a person. Not that she'd been expecting the file to give her that kind of information. To know what Crane was like behind closed doors, she needed someone who knew Crane behind closed doors. Could it really be that he was as careful as this, or were there people in his life that he was close to? Where were the signs of some kind of social life or ex-girlfriends? He never appeared in any of the society pages in the papers, though there were a few photographs taken of him in court, and a profile piece which only repeated what she knew about his academic career, and didn't go into any detail about his likes and dislikes.

What had that plaque beside his door said? _Professor of Psychology at Gotham University. _She flipped to the back of the file where she remembered seeing it written. Yes – here he was. It stated a specialism in phobias. So – what was that? Fear? Professor of Fear? She screwed up her mouth slightly – it seemed too melodramatic somehow. Like something out of a bad slasher movie.

Rachel realised that she had finished her bottle of wine and grimaced at the empty green glass bottle. She was of slight build, and most of a bottle was more than enough to make her vague and a little bit on the giggly side. Only the focus on her work had kept her from realising it until now, but as she stood up the papers tipped sideways and fanned open across the rug under the coffee table. She placed a hand on the back of the couch to steady herself to bring herself into a standing upright position. "God dammit."

There was a knock at the door and Rachel almost swallowed her tongue. Her eyes darted to the clock above the elegant faux fireplace, which was already reading 9.45PM. Late, but not totally late. Bruce, maybe? He sometimes visited her on his way home from the office – not for anything sexual – just to talk. She had a feeling that Bruce's affections for her had yet to subside, but she couldn't bring herself to act on them, knowing that she didn't really feel the same way. He was too good of a person to be messed around.

The knock came again, a little more urgent this time, and not knowing what better to do, Rachel shoved all of the papers under the couch and out of view. She darted over to the mirror to make sure her hair wasn't doing anything too wild, then bounced lightly across the living room and into the hall, grabbed the handle and opened it wide.

It wasn't Bruce. It was Crane.

Fuck, what had she been thinking? Of course there was a chance it would be Crane – Gotham was the kind of city where anyone could get an address for the right price, and there was no doubt in her mind that Crane at the very least knew who those people were. She must have looked shaken, as Crane's eyes lit up the moment he saw her. This was exactly the kind of bullshit she should have expected – corrupt men in power could always be relied upon to try and intimidate anyone who was a possible risk to them, and this was exactly his style.

"What do you want?" she said. She folded her arms and went to lean on the doorframe, but the alcohol was doing her no favours and she slightly misjudged the distance between herself and the doorway. It wasn't bad, but she was forced to hop slightly to get her foot over and give her the extra couple of inches needed for a stable lean.

"Why Miss Dawes… Sorry, _Rachel_ – have you been drinking?" He looked far too pleased with himself. Far too pleased with the entire situation.

TBC


	4. Upping the Ante

**Author's Note: **Things start to hot up in this chapter, though Rachel and Doctor Crane share only fiery _banter_ in this episode. A quick comment on some of the writing here to say, if you feel a sense of discomfort from the proximity of the sex and the violence, this is actually what I intend, not an accident. The two will be interleaved throughout the story. Anticipate a horror level of _The Alienist_ or maybe a little worse. This is a story about Rachel and Crane ultimately, it's not an attempt just to be gruesome for no reason.

**Warnings: **Warnings in this chapter for some visceral descriptions of a murder scene, descriptions of self-love, and one mention of sexual abuse, which needs to be noted. This content is not designed to be offensive, but if you are affected by this kind of subject, you need to be aware that it will come up at the end of this chapter and the beginning of the next. Due to the nature of the characters involved (Scarecrow mainly) I will deal with this as sensitively as I can, but he is not a sensitive character by nature.

**Disclaimer:** Not mine, blah blah blah.

_Shitohshitohshit_, Rachel's internal monologue ran away with itself. She felt her heart start to pump harder, like a steam engine slowly pulling out of a station. The force of it was building in her chest, like a frantic bird beating its wings in a cage. She pressed the nails of her right hand into her palm to ground herself, and tried to regulate her breathing. "You judging me?" she replied haughtily, clipping each syllable tightly so as to avoid even the smallest chance of slurring her words.

"Not at all, I'm a big fan of self-medication," he responded breezily, "besides, the rosy cheeks are adorable."

If Rachel's cheeks were rosy before, the hot flush she felt in her belly, now creeping up her neck, was not going to improve matters. She had to get rid of Crane. "It's late," she said, "What can I help you with?"

Jonathan Crane reached into his briefcase and retrieved from it the same pink folder that Rachel had "given" him earlier. He held it in front of her face and tapped the side of it with his fingers, one after the other. "I've got some insights on your case. If you're interested," he shrugged.

She was interested, but she wasn't in any mood to play Crane's games right now, and she was scared of slipping up or making a fool of herself. Why did it feel like he was constantly seeking new ways to aggravate her? "My office hours are 9AM-5PM – why don't you come to the office tomorrow and we can talk about this then?"

Doctor Crane cocked his head and pouted, "Aw, don't tell me you've lost the thrill of the chase already – you've only just gotten started. Oh well…" he pressed the file into her chest, forcing her to take it or let it fall on the floor. "I'm sorry I bothered you."

He turned and started walking back towards the stairwell, and Rachel felt a surge of panic. She'd just managed to get Crane on the hook, she couldn't lose him now, regardless of the consequences. "Wait… Doctor Crane, wait."

He paused and turned, looking at her over the top of his spectacles expectantly. "Well?"

"You'd better come in," she sighed, gesturing with a tilt of her head through the apartment doorway. "But you can't stay long, I'm… having an early night." _Lame_ her subconscious interjected, as if she needed commentary from the more dormant aspects of her psyche.

The doctor strode confidently back down the corridor and slid past her through the doorway, just a little too close for comfort as his suit jacket buttons grazed the front of her scarlet satin shirt. Rachel suddenly became aware of how uncomfortably hot she was. It was normal for her to get rosy cheeked and over-heated when she had been drinking. She wanted to undo a couple more buttons to let her body breathe, but she'd be damned if she'd give Crane the satisfaction of seeing even a hint more skin than was absolutely required.

"I like it when you call me doctor," he said, standing at the entryway to her living room and peering in with curiosity. "DA's office is underpaying you," he added, heading into the kitchen and putting his own briefcase on an empty bar stool.

"Thanks for your concern," she said, trying to keep the sarcasm from leaking through with only partial success. She followed him into the kitchenette and pulled herself up onto a stool next to the island that separated the kitchen area from the living area. Her eyes darted over to the couch, but she couldn't see any of the papers poking out. Small mercies.

"So… what did you ascertain about the suspect?"

Doctor Crane slid into a stool, tutted and waggled his finger. "Hmm, you didn't think this information was going to be free-of-charge, did you?"

Rachel swallowed drily, the scrape of tongue against the roof of her mouth practically audible. "I'm looking for your _analysis_, Doctor Crane, nothing more."

"But _I'm_ looking for some diversion," he replied, interlocking his fingers and looking her straight in her grey eyes. "I don't ask a lot, Rachel, I'm just looking for insights of my own, that's all."

"About what?" The skin up the back of her neck prickled.

"About you. What else?" he leant back to get a better look at her, taking in her face and body language. "One of my questions, then one of your questions. That's all I'm after. Let me get to know the woman I'm working with."

"I don't think that's…" she trailed off, not knowing how to continue. Wait – surely it was possible to answer Crane's questions without giving him any personal information. She was a government worker – plenty of information about her was already public record. She could keep her answers brief – there was nothing in his request that required her to spill every detail of her personal life. "Fine. Ask away."

He regarded her for a few seconds, then said, "You haven't offered me a drink."

"Is that your first question?" she fired back softly.

"It's a statement, or can't you tell the difference? That might make this conversation difficult."

"Fine," she clipped, "what do you want?"

"I'd say wine, but you've clearly been mainlining that already this evening, so I'll say vodka."

"Vodka?"

He grinned, "With a twist."

She narrowed her eyes, but in an effort to be civil, slid back off of her stool and went to the cabinet to retrieve a low glass tumbler. "Ice?"

"Surprise me."

She took her time travelling around the kitchen, pausing at the ice maker and the bottle of Stolichnaya that stood on the drinks cabinet in the living area. She'd been saving it for an evening with friends, but seeing as one of those was unlikely to be visiting soon, perhaps it could have a more significant purpose in her life – loosening Crane's tongue. She headed back into the kitchen and set it neatly in front of him with a flourish.

He took it in one hand and swirled the ice cubes once, then took a sip. Without showing any sign of hurrying, he set it back down, then said, "Tell me about your childhood."

"It was good," she replied, thinking carefully about how to keep this interaction as brief as possible. "I grew up on the Wayne Estate. My parents were very happy." She stopped there, to see how the information would settle.

Crane rolled his eyes theatrically, "You're going to have to do much better, Rachel."

"You asked me to answer your questions, you didn't specify to what level of detail. I don't need therapy, Doctor."

"In my experience, everyone needs therapy. We all have some nasty little skeletons in our closet."

"Maybe."

"Go on then," he encouraged, smiling ghoulishly. "Ask your question."

Something inside Rachel crowed victoriously. That had been much easier than she'd thought. "Roger McNulty – what were your thoughts on the violence and duration of the attack?"

"What a boring question," Crane rolled his blue orbs and took another short swig of vodka. "Also – why waste time asking me basic questions, when the answer is already right there in your array of beautiful pictures?"

"This is my question, not yours," she countered.

He scoffed, but continued, "It was… an exceptionally violent and bloody attack," he said, slowly and deliberately. "While the precise details of what carnal scene McNulty walked in on are beyond our knowledge, whatever fetid little act his wife and her gardener were involved in, it clearly rocked poor Mr. McNulty's whole world. Not only do the stab attacks with the poker seem to almost mimic the actions one might take when _fucking_ someone," he enunciated this word very carefully, "doing it clearly aroused him rather than repulsed him, as there was residue from his… enjoyment," he smirked, "left in the room."

"Yes, he…" Rachel opened the file that lay between them and pointed her finger at the text on one of the pages, "It mentioned here, he… he seems to have…"

"Jacked off, yes," Doctor Crane completed. "He must have seen something that excited him. It's something about humanity that has always been fascinating to me. The subconscious. The dark and dirty deeds we'd do if propriety and morality were no longer a consideration."

"It's just so… so brutal and vile. I've seen some truly awful things, but this is inhuman. And this was a man with no history of mental illness. Do you know if…"

"Nuh-uh, that's your question all done, and I was very generous. You'll have to do a lot better this time if you want to retain my attention," he drained the glass all the way and slid it across the table towards her. "I'll have another and," he gestured toward her body, his eyes lingering on it, "one for my gracious hostess."

"Thank you, but I think I've had enough," she replied grimly.

He rolled his eyes, "Don't bore me, Rachel, you know you're always more fun when you're drunk. All of your friends think so."

Her breath caught in her throat, and for a few ticks of the kitchen clock, she said nothing. Rachel had always had a deep fear that she was simply _no fun to be around_ unless she'd had a skin-full of booze. For those few seconds, she was taken right back to standing in her college dorm room, her college boyfriend still extracting himself from her roommate with completely unwarranted hostility.

_"What the Hell is wrong with you? You know fun girls – cool girls – they'd just join in and get fucked up with us." _Rachel felt the ghost of a tear on her cheek, but when she lifted her hand to rub it away, it wasn't there. _"Lighten the Hell up, Rach – go out and get battered. Bring home some strange ass – I don't give a shit."_ He'd left shortly after, Rachel still staring at her roommate, who seemed only bored by the exchange, not apologetic. Everyone had seemed so bored with her then. They were all out to experiment and try new things, while she'd been clinging on desperately to normalcy. To the rules that had governed her life until then. Rachel had always felt comforted by rules.

But Crane couldn't know that. He _couldn't_ know that – none of that information was public record. Her gut twisted. This was just paranoia, that was all. Something he'd picked up about her had given her away – it wasn't surprising. He was a psychologist – he was an expert in reading and analysing people. She got up again and this time retrieved an extra glass, filling it with the same combination of ice, vodka, and a small shaving of orange peel. Crane looked only pleased, like the cat who got the cream. She just wasn't in the right condition to conceal her feelings – they were starting to leak from her eyes, her mouth, her pores. If she didn't take care, all of her secrets would start to seep out without her even needing to speak.

"Fine, what's your question," she took a swig of alcohol to numb the wretched conflicting sensations inside her.

"When was the first time you touched yourself for pleasure?"

Her expression must have conveyed everything she _wanted_ to say to him, as he barked a laugh almost immediately after he'd spoken, "And no more weak half-answers _Rachel_ or I'll know."

"You can't seriously expect me to tell you…" she trailed off. There was nothing in his face or body language that hinted that he was joking, though he was undoubtedly _laughing_ at her. He wasn't laughing at a clever joke he'd told, he was laughing with glee at the thought of hearing her answer. "You're disgusting."

"And you're _testing _my _patience_," he snapped back, suddenly fierce, his body for a fraction of a second full of power and fire. "Rachel, I'm here because of you – this is your little game we're playing, I'm just abusing the rules. You can stop any time you like, but until you do, you can _answer_ my fucking_ question._"

She felt a hotness behind her eyes that was threatening to turn into tears. There was no way she'd be able to hold her head up at work, or even look herself in the mirror, if she cried in front of this sociopath. One thing was for certain – if she stopped now then she was back to square one. Crane would continue his practices, he'd be back in court in a week or two, getting some other scumbag out of trouble, and she'd have to live with herself. She'd have to live with all of the victim's families that she met, with their tears and accusations. That just wasn't something she could let lie – even if it cost her some self-respect in the process.

"Fine," she closed her eyes and slowly reopened them, trying to imagine she was a long way away, completely alone, where no one could hear these confessions. "I was… it was my first year at college."

"Late bloomer," he smirked, "I thought so."

She waited for him to finish just so that she could distinguish him with a look of contempt, then continued, "I had been dating a guy – Jack – he was… he was nice. But he was," she swallowed, "he wanted to make a virginity pact, and I didn't feel that comfortable with it. He didn't mind some contact, and this one time, we'd been… we'd been making out, and it left me… it left me…"

"Randy as a bitch in heat?"

"No, it…" she sighed, "we'd just gotten a little hot and heavy. And it was all very new to me, so it was very erm. Effective."

"And so," he leant forward, enrapt in her story. He sipped the cold vodka. She could smell the pharmaceuticals on him, mixed with the strong scent of alcohol. "What did you do about it?"

"I… I touched…"

"Now now, play the game. Set the scene for me, Rachel. Where were you? What were you wearing?"

Her eyes glared blue murder at him. How many questions was this now? She'd gotten this far – it was nearly over. "In my dormroom at college. It was lying on my bed. I was wearing…" she shrugged. "I don't know. A skirt and a sweater I guess." She cleared her throat. "I used my hand, it didn't take long to... get there."

"To 'come' Rachel – we're both adults – you can use your big words here."

"Fine," she snapped, feeling her body release the stress it had been carrying since he'd asked his question. "I came. Satisfied?"

"I don't know, were you?" he grinned.

"Bad choice of words," she grimaced. "Can we continue?"

"I'll give you some leeway for your answer, you did well," he replied, like a teacher complimenting his pupil. "Ask me."

Finally. "Do you have any idea where someone with a profile like Roger McNulty might be hiding? He left the house that night, he hasn't been seen since. He's a wanted man, his face is all over the news. Where could someone like that hide in a city like Gotham?"

"What makes you think he's still in Gotham?" Crane returned.

"Bank cards, money mostly. We've been watching friends and remaining relatives around the clock, but they haven't seen him and he hasn't shown his face. There's a suspicion among my colleagues that he realised what he did and killed himself, but… he seemed to enjoy it so much. He might do it again."

"Maybe he left the city on foot."

Rachel wrinkled up her nose, giving Jonathan a hard look. "And that's your expert opinion?"

"Heh, well let me see," he said, running his tongue over his teeth. "I think McNulty would go to ground. The behaviour he's exhibited would certainly suggest he had loved every second of what he did. So, I don't think your belief that he'll attack someone else is misled. For once. I would say you have a race against time on your hands. If I were you I'd be checking every crack den and whorehouse from Arkham to Gotham Heights. Men like that… he won't know how to integrate into normal society anymore. That's if he still possesses such a thing as a conscience. We'll put some feelers out ourselves. The asylum has its own unique investigative team, who can help you look if you'd be willing to collaborate with them."

"Like Hell."

"Your loss, they're really very effective."

"So are the police," she replied, despite Crane's scoffs at the idea. "We'll catch him ourselves. We don't need a pack of ghouls with strait jackets turning up and sending him into the shadows again."

"I don't know what you mean," Doctor Crane purred back, leaning forward to gently run a finger over the back of her hand, making Rachel retract it to her chest like she'd been stung. A small amount of vodka slopped out of her glass and on to the counter top. "Honestly Miss Dawes, what kind of establishment do you think I'm running? Everything we do is completely above board," his mind strayed back to Angela Riesen and he couldn't help the corners of his mouth turning upwards. "We take very compassionate care of our patients, even those with the most depraved and disturbed minds. I believe I've seen people from the police a number of times looking for evidence of malpractice, and yet… no law suits."

_Careful _thought Rachel, knowing that this had turned now into a conversation. Anything she volunteered at this point was on her – and she didn't want to suggest to Crane that he and Arkham were under investigation. He was too clever to think that her interest in her was purely about this case, but that didn't mean she was going to lay her cards face up on the table and take whatever was coming. She looked up at the clock on the wall. The time had run away from them – it was 11PM. "One more question. Then you should get going."

"Better make it a good one then," he responded lightly. "Fine. One more question – a tricky one – are you ready?"

She looked him dead in the eye in what she hoped was the most challenging way she could. "I'm ready."

"When did you realise that your Uncle Ricky had been sexually abusing your little sister Claire?"

Rachel's breath caught in her throat, and her words evaporated before they hit her lips. Her mind turned over and over, and tried to escape down to the base of her spine, unwilling and unable to process what had been said. "Claire?" she whispered weakly.

"Oh I see," he bared his teeth in a wolfish smile. "You didn't know."

TBC


End file.
